Impossible
by Katbin
Summary: Lavellan doesn't even use hair products!


Dorian groans. It's the first thing he hears after everything went dark a few moments ago. Was it a few moments ago? He's not sure. He _is_ sure that a good hit to the head with a Red Templar's sword pommel hurts more than he would have imagined – not that he ever spent much of his free time fantasizing about it. At least now he'll never have to wonder.

The lump on the crown of his head thumps painfully along to the rhythm of his heartbeat, makes him want to vomit. The idea of opening his eyes makes the nausea even worse. If only his friends in Minrathous could see him now. The letters he's sent to the few companions demanding updates have been brief and full of unimportant details, but it's enough to keep their tongues wagging for months. How strange that he finds it detestable now, all the petty gossip. Its almost as if all these months with the Inquisition has made him "decent". Dorian almost chuckles, but the noise he would make would surely split his head in two.

He focuses on what he can bear. Where was he? Crestwood, he instantly recalls, which is somewhat calming. At least he remembers. But where is he specifically? The lower part of his body is clearly laying in the muddy and wet grass by the way his very breathing has him slowly sinking into the earth. Dreadful place, Crestwood. He hates the never ending rain, the damp caves, the chill that he can't ever seem to shake. It's almost as bad as the Storm Coast. Almost. There isn't an infuriating terrain of backbreaking mountains to climb here.

Something solid shifts beneath his head. Curious. The mage moves slightly, a miniscule movement, in hopes to better assess the dry material. Whatever it is responds to him and goes rigid, and Dorian realizes what it is. A lap. His pounding head is resting in someone's lap, but whose?

Intrigued, he forces his eyes open. At first he sees nothing but the dark, stormy Crestwood sky but then an all to familiar face leans into his rough around the edges vision. As imbecilic as it sounds -he blames his head- Dorian feels his heart skip a beat as he finds Lavellan's dragon gold eyes looking back at him. They're wide with surprise and concern, flashing with the occasional blasts of lightning, the entrancing irises flicker around his face but the distress it fading. What he recognizes startles him. Affection? No. There's no way.

"-rian?" Lavellan's lips are pale from the cold, but still full. "Dorian? Can you hear me?"

No man should have such a deep and rolling voice. It's almost criminal. It would be a lie to say he has been asking Lavellan about his life and clan solely for academic purposes. How could he when the elf's voice is like fine velvet, a warm embrace in a dark corner, a healing balm on a scorching burn? Now Dorian is positive he was hit hard. Waxing poetic about the Inquisitor's voice? A new low. He feels no guilt, however, when he imagines what that voice would sound like in an entirely different setting.

Now _that_ is a line of thought that has been keeping him up at night for several weeks now. He can't deny that Lavellan is a beautiful man because by all of Dorian's standards he truly is. The scattered whispers of conversation he's heard in Skyhold's main hall agree, as do the turns and looks Lavellan receives whenever he walks into a room. It's the strong cheekbones he wants to touch, the intricate and dark vallaslin covering his forehead and aforementioned cheekbones, the imperfect nose that sets Dorian ablaze. That stupid, once broken and just slightly crooked nose should be a point against Lavellan but it makes him all the more interesting. Maker. And the hair!

He's never been so enraptured by hair that wasn't his own! How many times has he sat across an early morning fire watching Lavellan work his fingers through the insanely long locks, coercing them into a perpetually mussed braid that reaches his just below his heart? He's lost count. The strands are as black as pitch, the sky on a night with a new moon, and they appear to be softer than any silk Dorian has ever encountered which is a miracle considering how often Lavellan has to comb it. He feels his fingers twitch against his stomach, where someone (most likely the Inquisitor himself) has rested his hands, and the urge to touch the other man's hair is consuming. Just once. He could use his head injury as an excuse for the act.

The end of the braid is just to the left of his head now since Lavellan is bent over him and Dorian acts on his impulse. He'll no doubt regret being so open about his fixation when he comes fully back into himself but for now he moves his eyes to follow his fingers enclosing around the ebony tresses. "Oh."

It's the only thing he can think to say. It's not even a complete idea, or even a complete sentence, but anything else seems wrong. His hypothesis completely and absolutely turns out to be true and the hair is so soft in his grasp that he can barely believe it. Lavellan stops breathing for a few seconds and Dorian can feel his eyes fixed on his fingers. Will he swat his hand away? Will he be uncomfortable at this kind of contact? A new wave of nausea rolls over him and he's not sure if it's his head or the idea of Lavellan's hypothetical rejection.

"Dorian?" Lavellan gently wraps his gloved hand around Dorian's, giving it a light squeeze. "Are you alright?"

"How is it even possible?"

"How is _what_ even possible?" There's warm laughter in his voice and when Dorian looks away from their hands he can see the raised eyebrow and quirk of Lavellan's lips. "How hard did that Templar hit you?"

In the distance, Dorian hears the unmistakable sound of horses approaching meaning that Lavellan called for either Sera or Bull to go back to the closest camp for a healer. "You sent for a healer?"

A small blush rises on the Inquisitor's pale cheeks. "What don't you understand, Dorian?"

"Avoiding my question, are we?"

"I see you're back to your normal self."

Lavellan smirks even though his cheeks are still rosy and untangles their hands from his hair, carefully putting Dorian's back onto his chest. Dorian chuckles and starts to rise from his lap, happy to find out that the nausea has abated and the world is no longer strange around the edges. Gingerly, he pushes himself up and away from the ground and wobbles onto his feet. The world may have come back into focus but his motor skills remain unsteady. Where his staff has gone to he has no idea but moving around feels pleasant enough so he endeavors to begin the search.

Behind him he hears Lavellan let out a small huff as he stands up. "So… what did you think was impossible?"

When Dorian turns he realizes that the Inquisitor's exquisite hair is no longer his problem. Mahanon Lavellan standing with his missing staff in one hand and the other hand on his hip is _definitely_ his number one problem.

"Unfortunately I've forgotten what it was."


End file.
